


hotshot

by kiichu



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, Gen, I Don't Even Know, Self-Indulgent, What-If, Whump, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiichu/pseuds/kiichu
Summary: Even Troy realizes it's a fucking dumb move, but that doesn't stop him from stepping in to prevent Carver from beating Kenny's face in. Of course,someone'sgot to lose an eye today, so it might as well be a mouthy subordinate.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	hotshot

**Author's Note:**

> I dunno why I wrote this, but damn if I didn't enjoy it. It's entirely self-indulgent but I am all about that life now. Enjoy if this kind of thing's your jam, too.

In hindsight, this wasn’t the best idea. 

But Troy can already feel the bursting of blood vessels in his face before he realizes that maybe, just maybe, he should’ve kept his mouth shut. More than that, the circumstances that preceded this incident provide the exact incentive he _needed_ to keep quiet, and yet he ignored them. Like the goddamn idiot he is, he acted on instinct and would pay the consequences - he just hopes to God those don’t include his life. 

Bill’s radio is thicker than it looks for sure, or maybe it’s the way he’s holding it that lets it become such a great weapon. And Troy knows great weapons - he knows them _damn_ well. There isn’t a gun at Howe’s that he can’t spit out a fact about - Becca called him a _hoplophile_ once as he was prattling on about his favorite rifle, and he still isn’t sure what it means or if it’s an insult. 

This is really not the time or place to be reminiscing, but it’s like his mind is trying to distract him from the pain erupting in his cranial area. It’s an eerie feeling; as his body crumples to the ground, he can’t stop thinking about a trivial (but relevant) memory: the one time he tried to square up against a school bully, and lost hard. 

Wait a minute... no, that hadn’t been the school bully; Troy hadn’t been standing up for someone weak, or even protesting anything he thought wrong. He had just been angry and decided to fight the wrong kid that day - ended up with a few teeth knocked loose and a fractured arm for his trouble. Fun times. 

Hopefully, this situation will end with similar wounds. It had been _so_ stupid to question Bill’s decisions, and Troy would take it back immediately if he could. Though, going by the way he’s rapidly losing sight in one swollen eye, along with the increasingly strong taste of copper filling his mouth, he’s willing to bet things won’t ever be the same again.

 _Fuck._ He thinks, because that’s all there is to think. _Fuck._ Once again, his big mouth landed him in serious trouble.

His ears hone back in on what’s going on outside his mind, hearing Bill’s heavy breaths as he exerts himself. Troy has to dial back the instinctive concern at his leader’s health, because this is hardly the time. The man in question is currently beating his face in, after all. 

There’s scattered cries of protest, and Troy has to wonder if they’re truly on his behalf. Bill had struck that bearded bastard once or twice before Troy stupidly stepped in, asking if it was necessary to keep going like that. Well, that had been the absolute _wrong_ thing to say, because Bill didn’t need any more incentive to continue his beatdown - with a new target. 

“Bill! Bill, that’s enough! There’s a breach!” 

It’s far away, but he swears it’s Bonnie’s voice. Her words miraculously connect, and there are no more punches; that doesn’t stop the pain, not at all - agony keeps pulsing through him with each dragging second. A wet stickiness drips from his eye to his head, creeping down the back of his neck and tingling between his shoulders. 

Troy can’t recall ever being in this much pain, but he feels so strangely far away from it all. Like he’s watching from afar, he catches faded glimpses of silhouettes around him through a cracked eye, hears some concerned shouting as his body lolls about like a puppet with its strings cut. 

There’s probably some more metaphorical bullshit to say about all this, but Troy’s never been a huge fan of deep thinking. Plus, he’s a bit preoccupied.

Once more trying to distract himself before he inevitably falls unconscious, he tries to focus on the voices around him. It proves difficult through the buzzing noise in his ears, but he manages somehow. 

“D-dad, you have to help…” That little shit, Sarah, is the first voice he hears. She has no goddamn right to sound that worried about him - or, hell, maybe she’s referring to someone else. Maybe the prisoners have left him to wallow in the consequences of his own brainless actions, or just plain want him to die. 

If that’s the case, he can’t even blame them. 

Clementine speaks next. “She’s right. Even if he doesn’t deserve it, we’re better than he is. We _have_ to help.” Ah, so they _are_ talking about him. Well, fuck. He wonders what he looks like, how horrific it must be to stun most of them to silence. 

“Fuck _that_ , he’s one’a Carver’s lackeys!” The brash words come from the dick who stole the radio, who seems _way_ more conscious than Troy (lucky bastard!).

“Not anymore,” the Indian lady points out, and the pity laced in her voice is revolting. “You saw what happened. Whatever he was trying to do, he stopped you from getting hurt worse, Kenny. I think we owe him this, at least.” 

He mentally begs them to keep talking, keep distracting him, but there’s too many long periods of silence. They’re thinking over what to do, surely, but it isn’t helping him one bit. The pain threatens to creep back in, so he tries to focus on breathing correctly. 

In. Out. In. Out. The breaths sound like a whistle, rattling deep in his chest as he tries to push air past his clogged nose and throat. He gasps against the strangling feeling, terrified that he may be drowning in his own blood. 

His hands instinctively curl into the dirt, nails scrabbling and trying to get his body to rise. The better part of him _knows_ he needs to stay down, to lay low like a dog and wait for whatever’s coming, but he’s struck by a sudden desire to _get away_. This situation is humiliating, painful, unpleasant - everything about it just sinks him lower and lower into disgust.

There’s hands fussing about him, trying to flip him over or make him stand or _something_ , but he can’t comply. It’s not even that he doesn’t want to - he’d like nothing more than to get up and disappear from sight completely - it’s just that he _can’t move_. Anytime he twitches a muscle, more pain shoots through his body like an electrical current, and his limited sight briefly goes white. 

“Fuck… he ain’t lookin’ so good, is he?” 

_No shit,_ Troy wants to snap to whoever made that smartass comment, but he’s fading fast. The world is a bunch of low blurs now, seen only for a quick moment before everything cuts out. 

The last thing he hears is a sound he’s very familiar with: the pen’s gate is slammed shut, but Troy’s stuck on the wrong side. 

He probably won’t be seeing through from the other side of that gate ever again.

* * *

Someone’s groaning, rather loudly at that. Or perhaps it just sounds loud because it’s close - so close, in fact, that it seems to be coming from Troy’s own throat. Damn it. 

One of his eyes crack open, but the other doesn’t comply - or at least, its sight is met with darkness, completely covered by something. Pain pulses through his head, another grunt leaving him. Sluggishly, he brings an arm up to rest on his forehead, hissing as he rubs against a wound. 

“About time you woke up.” The words are unexpected, and he nearly jumps when he hears them. His depth perception is fucked with one eye covered, but he manages to get what little vision he has to clear. He’s lying on his back, the image of a dark, starry sky poking through the pipe scaffolding above him. 

Someone familiar’s sitting nearby on a lawn chair, her head boredly placed on her palm and a knee brought up to her chest. It’s that attractive girl, Jane - he’d been in the middle of setting up deals with her, hadn’t he? Well, there goes all _that_ out the window. Now there’s nothing he can offer her in return for favors. How’s he supposed to get laid now?!

“Hey there, hotshot,” she greets, quirking a brow. “How you feeling?”

“Like shit,” he snaps. Honestly, how the fuck does she _think_ he feels? Still, even if the pain’s making him angrier, he needs to ask the most prevalent question on his mind: “Is my eye gone?” 

A low chuckle escapes her mouth and she has to close her eyes, shaking her head. For a moment, his heart lifts as he thinks she’s responding ‘ _no_ ’ - but it becomes clear she’s just exasperated by his sudden boldness. “Afraid so. At least, that’s what the Doc says.” Her gaze flashes over towards the rest of the prisoners. Troy follows it with his own eye as best he can, propping himself up on an elbow. 

The chickens are all seated by the fire, lowly murmuring amongst themselves - about what, he can’t even fathom. This was such a foreign world to Troy up until very recently, after all, and the blame’s on no one but himself. No one pushed him to stand up to Bill at the exact wrong moment, no one told him to question _any_ of his orders. But he did, and he paid the consequences - and now he’s alone with the very prisoners he mocked only hours ago. 

Strictly speaking, they have every right to stick his head on a spike. Seems a bit stupid to go through the trouble of patching up his damaged eye socket, though, if they just wanted to cut off his head. 

“So, the Doc patched me up? _Me_ ’a all people?” Troy asks, scrunching up his nose. He doesn’t like the sound of it - it puts him in these chickens’ debt, and he _hates_ that. 

Jane rolls her eyes. “What was he supposed to do? Just let you bleed out there? We don’t exactly have any _weapons_ to put a walker version of you down, y’know.” 

Okay, that at least makes him feel a little better about the whole thing; it’s not sentimental, but _practical_ , which Troy can appreciate. They didn’t want to deal with a lurker in the enclosed space, so Carlos swallowed his pride and prevented Troy’s brain from rotting. 

“Makes sense,” he rasps, falling onto his back again. Seeing the world through only one eye is way more staggering than he could’ve predicted. Not that anything about this was _ever_ predictable - damn his _stupid_ , sudden urge to change his status quo. 

But Troy refuses to give himself a pity party just yet, not willing to fully digest the reality. Instead, he focuses on Jane, trying to distract himself with her appearance and all the feelings she gives him. 

“Still don’t explain why _you’re_ over here. You worried ‘bout me?” he asks, giving a sneer. 

“You _wish_ ,” she snaps, and he honestly kind of does. But he’ll take her disdain over nothing, because she’s still giving him attention. He’s had hatesex before, and it’s not at all something he’d rule out with her...

Anyway, when he keeps eyeing her, she gives a disgusted look and adds, “I was the one _most willing_ to shoot you in the fucking face if you turned.”

“Sounds hot,” he snarks, and she just lets out a groan and doesn’t say anything more. 

A thick silence settles between them, allowing Troy to catch his breath, so to speak, about everything. Getting beaten half to death changed a bit of his perspective on things, and not only with his now-impaired eyesight. If Bill was so willing to turn on someone fairly high up the hierarchy of Howe’s, then that really says it all about who matters most. Even someone like Troy, once much higher than the prisoners in the pen, can get knocked down to the bottom of the pyramid without a second thought.

They’re all disposable. The thought isn’t as shocking or startling to Troy as it probably should be. Maybe in the back of his dumb brain, he knew on some level that he would’ve gotten hit just the same as anyone for talking out of turn. But he’d still done it, despite that threat looming over his head.

Stupid. _Stupid._

Jane lifts her eyes a little towards someone, and Troy feels incredibly vulnerable when he can’t see who is approaching - but he can hear them, strangely enough. The fact that his senses aren’t in sync with one another is frustrating, but at least he can grimace and force himself to sit up. 

Once he’s up, he can faintly see the Doc emerging from the darkness. The man doesn’t look thrilled to be in Troy’s presence, but he’s still here, so that gives him brownie points at least. 

“Hey, Doc,” Troy mutters. “The damage as bad as she says?” 

Carlos crosses his arms, eyes looking Troy up and down in what is probably some kind of quick mental scan. He heaves a sigh, eventually replying, “Yes, I’m afraid your orbital was crushed, Troy. I… cannot understand what led you to make the decision to speak up, however…” 

“Couldn’t tell y’,” Troy replies with a shrug. It isn’t something to shrug about, but he doesn’t know how else to deflect. More than anything, he wants Carlos to stop _looking at him like that_. That… pity, that weird mixture of sympathy and confusion, he can’t _stand_ it. 

Troy made his decision because his brain told him to act up at that moment, because he thought smashing the radio thief’s head in was taking a consequence too far. He just didn’t want to see someone’s face mashed into gore in front of him. Punishment didn’t fit the crime and all that. Sue him. 

“You realize things will not be easy for you. Losing an eye in this kind of world… it only promotes more danger,” the Doc points out, like a fucking idiot.

Troy rolls his eyes - _eye_. The action actually shifts his wound uncomfortably, and he has to bite back a hiss of pain and retorts, “No shit.”

Carlos sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What I do not understand is… you, _especially_ , know how Carver is. You must have predicted he would react that way to your opposition. So why…?” 

“I’d like t’ know that, too.”

Troy jumps at the new voice, rough and Southern, and he watches with disdain as the man who started this all - that _damned radio thief_ \- strides up to him like he owns the place. 

Warily, Troy stares at the man, not exactly comfortable interacting with him, but the bastard makes it clear he’s expecting an answer, and won’t leave without one.

With a heavy groan, Troy shakes his head in frustration. “Y’all keep askin’ me that… what if I don’t have an answer?”

“You just go ‘round standing up to maniacs often? Just felt like a fun pastime?” The guy - Kenny? That’s his name, isn’t it? - scoffs. “I only known you for a day now and even I could say that wasn’t somethin’ I _ever_ would’a expected from you.” 

Well, he’s not wrong. “Yeah, I… I don’t really know, either. Somethin’ in the back’a my mind told me to speak up.” He winces as his fingers brush his bandaged eye socket. “Bad fuckin’ idea.” 

“Man, what a time to develop a conscience,” Kenny snorts. “Well, I ain’t gonna pretend like y’ didn’t take that beatin’ for me. Don’t know if there’s really no reason y’ did it, but you still _did it_ , and I, er, appreciate it.” 

Troy narrows his eye. In his experience, no one ever gives praise or thanks unless they have an ulterior motive - not that he can even begin to guess what it could be. “Why are y’all wastin’ time _thankin’_ me and _askin’_ me shit?” he rasps. “Shouldn’t y’ just _kill_ me?”

Kenny blinks in surprise, clearly baffled by the assumption. “What the hell would be the point’a _that_?” 

“Well, I’m Bill’s right-hand man, for one.”

“You _were_ ,” Jane points out, and he suddenly wants to punch her pretty face for being right.

“Alright, I _was_. But y’ gotta admit, I ain’t exactly _useful_ like this, and it’d make things a hell of a lot easier just t’ get me outta the way from the get-go,” Troy explains, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. And he’s being completely serious - he’s a weak link, after all, and he’d (begrudgingly) understand if he had to be cut. 

“Are you fuckin’ _serious_?” Kenny barks, shaking his head. “I swear y’ drank _way_ too much of Carver’s Kool-Aid. We ain’t gonna _kill you_ for bein’ a ‘liability’ or whatever-the-fuck. Get the hell outta here with that shit.” 

Casting a glance over at both Carlos and Jane, they both seem in agreement. Or, at the very least, no one seems ready to kill him at this very moment. That’s somewhat of a relief. 

“Well if y’ ain’t gonna _kill_ me, what’s gonna happen now?” Troy’s sure he could come up with a few torturous ideas for them to get information from him, though he isn’t sure anything he’d say would be useful. 

The future’s so uncertain, and it freaks him out; it doesn’t help that the three of them exchange glances with each other, making Troy squirm. He fucking _hates_ this uncomfortableness in his chest, how he feels like a giant spotlight is beaming down and it’s highlighting all that’s wrong with him. Before, he liked the attention as a guard that had important duties, but now… now, what is he, really? 

Carlos speaks through the quiet, interrupting Troy’s mental spiral. “We’re leaving later tonight, and you… you are welcome to join us. I’ll do all that I can for your injury so that you can travel, but the decision to go is up to you.” Okay, Carlos looks even _more_ uneasy with all of this, like he’d rather Troy die in a ditch but his ‘doctor’s oath’ (or whatever) is keeping him on task. A darkness washes over his expression, and his voice lowers in warning. “However, you will not do _anything_ to harm my daughter, or I’ll kill you myself.” 

Ah. There it is. Strangely enough, Troy prefers it like this; at least he knows where he stands when people freely express their hatred. It beats fake niceties and all that shit. 

But wait - what did the Doc even say? They’re _leaving_ soon? So many questions buzz through Troy’s mind at once, and it leaves him dizzy. Then again, do any of the details _matter_ in the end? If they can get away from Bill - if _Troy_ can get away from Bill - then any Who-What-When-Where-Whys don’t mean shit. It seems the prisoners know what they’re doing, so it might be his best interest to _trust_ them for now. 

Yuck. That thought causes bile to splash the back of his throat. (Or maybe that’s a side effect of his almost-certain concussion, who knows?)

It also doesn’t really make sense to Troy - what, because he accidentally takes a beating for one of them, suddenly he’s allowed into their group? Suddenly, he’s one of the ‘gang’ and, barring some watchful eyes and barriers around little shits, this deal doesn’t seem to have any strings attached? 

It’s too goddamn suspicious, too. 

So of _course_ , he can’t help but open his big mouth - the same mouth that got him beaten down in the first place, he reminds himself in vain - and asks, “Are y’ _sure_ everyone’s gonna be peachy-keen with me joinin’? I ain’t as stupid as I look; I know I don’t belong with y’all. I know _you_ know that, too.”

Kenny shakes his head with a groan. “Oh, cut it out with the pity party bullshit! We ain’t exactly been shyin’ away from pickin’ up strays, and I’d say even idiots like _you_ count. We’re givin’ you an _out_ , and there ain’t nothin’ else for you, so just shut up and _take_ it.”

“Even if everyone’s not set on it, when has that stopped you before, Troy?” Jane points out dryly. 

Alright, she’s got him there. With a raspy snicker, he replies, “Good point. I guess, then, like y’ said - there ain’t really an alternative. So there ain’t a choice anyway. I’m in.” 

Carlos nods. “Fine. We leave soon, so rest up while you can. And remember what I said.”

Rolling his eye, Troy snaps, “Yeah, yeah, I fuckin’ _get it_. Like I want t’ bother with that little shit anyway.” 

The doctor opens his mouth like he wants to retort something in response, but composes himself at the last minute, walking away with an exasperated shake of his head. Kenny, finally finding a way to get out of the conversation, strides after him. 

Alright, _ouch_ \- though Troy himself can’t even deny that he has that sort of effect on people. 

So with those assholes gone, that just leaves… 

His eye flicks back over to Jane, half-expecting her to be already taking her leave. But to his (pleasant) surprise, she remains seated near him on her lawn chair, not looking excited but not too annoyed either. 

“Y’all already had an escape plan cookin’ up, didn’t y’?” he rasps, a slight smirk crossing his lips. They’re awfully smart, for dumb chickens. 

“ _Duh_. Kid’s probably sneaking up to Carver’s office right now,” Jane says, gaze sweeping over the group again. “Gonna blast something on the speaker to attract the walkers. Then we’re outta here.”

Kid? Troy blinks (winks?), trying to crane his neck to see who’s missing from the prisoners. “Clementine, right? ‘Cause y’ _can’t_ mean Sarah.” 

Jane scoffs, the hint of a smirk on her lips. “Of _course_ I mean Clementine.” 

Naturally. Troy gives a snort of his own, and the topic is dropped. “Guess I’ll wait til y’all are ready,” he says, trying to judge her response.

She just nods and quips, “Catch some Zs while you can, _hotshot_.” He knows she’s toying with him with her choice of words, but he kind of likes it all the same.

With nothing more to say, Troy lies back against the uncomfortable cot once meant for Rebecca. Though he can’t give _too_ much of a shit, he hopes for a brief second that the pregnant woman doesn’t mind he’s using it at the moment. His head feels incredibly fuzzy, the world quickly dimming and his eyelid drooping. 

It doesn’t take long for his consciousness to cut out to black.

* * *

The next voice he registers is, unfortunately, Bill’s.

“Alright, get the _fuck_ in here, all’a you! I wanna know what’s goin’ on, **_NOW_**!”

Roused roughly, Troy sits up with a groan. He catches sight of his former boss in front of the gate, flanked by armed guards where Troy used to stand. 

There’s a deep-set anger etched into Bill’s expression, the same degree of fury he’d possessed when beating his own guard half to death. His mouth in a snarl and his face beet red, Bill and his goons begin to herd the prisoners inside. 

The older man’s eyes snap to Troy, who feels an instinctive drive to scramble to his feet. There’s a feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, but Troy meets Bill’s eyes as he demands with a low, threatening voice, “ _Get_ inside.” 

Troy can’t move fast enough. He finds himself sticking closer to the prisoners than he really wants to, but they’re his only hope of survival now. Bill’s not going to help him, the other guards aren’t, and like _fuck_ he can do anything on his own. 

With an almost forlorn look, he gazes back at the gate to the pen. Some goon brings it down but doesn’t turn the latch to lock it, and Troy has this fleeting desire to go over and fix the mistake. But he’s quickly brought back to reality as Bill orders his guards to go to the roof to prepare for the incoming herd. Troy notes the slight emptiness he feels at not being included in that group of guards, but he shakes his head clear of any lingering thoughts. 

“You wanna disrespect me, _fine._ You wanna throw away the life I’m tryin’ to build for us all… then fuckin’ fine!” 

Man, Bill’s _really_ mad, ranting and pacing about in a frenzy. But, as Troy realizes, it’s just all of them against one man - one _armed_ man, granted, but he doesn’t seem as frightening when he’s alone. Troy finds himself willing to be a little bit braver this time around, even if it costs him his other eye.

Thankfully, his sudden burst of courage is not put to the test. Clementine, like some kind of flying-squirrel-little-shit hybrid, suddenly falls from above onto Bill’s shoulder, knocking him off-balance enough for Kenny to punch him and Luke to retrieve the gun.

Just like that, it’s checkmate, and Troy is stunned to silence as these simple _‘chickens’_ reduce the powerful man he’s known to nothing.

Well, he may be now standing in opposition to Bill - _Carver_ \- but at least he can say, with confidence, that it’s the right side for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! c:


End file.
